


Ode to Cursed Sleep

by MeriwetherLeww



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeriwetherLeww/pseuds/MeriwetherLeww
Summary: Elder McKinley’s frequent Hell dreams have since been replaced by dreams of sin that leave him sobbing and more terrified than his Hell dreams.  His lack of sleep has been causing issues between him and the other Elders and his ability to perform his mission duties.  Perhaps this isn’t as easy as just turning it off.





	1. Elder Price

            Papers cluttered his desk, varying from letters from family to demands for an explanation as to _why_ the mission in Uganda thus far was, for lack of better term, a total disaster.  He sat at his desk, reading letter after letter, either responding to them immediately or placing them in a pile to be reread and either responded to then or put back in the pile, and tucking papers away and desperately trying to come up with _something_ to help this village that so urgently needed help from them to find the Lord. 

            “Elder McKinley.”

            He glanced up from his papers before shifting his eyes back down, responding, “Elder Price.”

            Price stuck his hands in his pockets and took a step towards his desk, saying, “A break might do you good, Elder.  You’ve done nothing but work from the time you get up to the time you go to bed for the past week and a half now.”

            He set a paper down right as he picked up another, saying, “I’d love to take a break, but I have a lot of explaining to do and a lot of organizing to accomplish.  Is there something you need, Elder?”

            He stepped around the desk and propped his backside against the edge, leaning his hands against the table and saying, “Just came over to say you need a break is all.”

            “I’m very busy, I haven’t time for –”

            “Are you sure about that?”  He lifted himself up so he was sitting on the edge of the desk.  “You can make time, surely.”

            “Elder Price, is there _nothing_ else you could be doing at the moment?” he sighed, beginning to grow irritated, but the other did not seem to notice.  He rearranged and adjusted himself so that he was on the desk directly in front of Elder McKinley, sitting on top of whatever letters and papers he had been examining.    

            He could feel his cheeks grow a bit warm at the gesture.  “Elder, what on earth is this about?”

            He set his elbows on his knees and propped his head up in his hands.  “Just getting you to take a break, Connor, come on now.”

_Connor?_

            His hands were sweaty and cold.  He rubbed them against his pants, tugged at the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie.  He had never seen Elder Price act in a manner such as this – lack of care, lack of itinerary, lack of respect.  “Elder Price, _please_ , you are making it very difficult to work –”

            “That’s the point.”  Price grabbed his tie and pulled down on it, tightening it again and smiling.  “What’s wrong with a little fun once in a while, Connor?”

            Every muscle in his body screamed at him to smack him away and demand he left him to his work and to _get off his desk for goodness sake._ Every muscle demanded him to again loosen his tie and step away from his work to recollect his thoughts and perhaps if he took a break Elder Price would leave him be.But his brain _craved_ for more contact, craved for his hand to tug him closer and for their lips to meet and his other hand to travel wherever Elder Price wanted it to. . .  “This isn’t like you, Elder.”  The statement turned into a nervous and airy laugh as his eyes trailed down to his lap. 

            “And it’s not like _you_ to not take full charge of a situation,” Elder Price responded, tucking a hand under McKinley’s chin and propping his head back up to catch his eyes.  “You _are_ district leader, aren’t you?”

            He could feel his face grow red as he stuttered in a flustered manner, “Well, I. . . Of course, I just. . . That has nothing to do with this, Elder.”  His eyes strayed to the papers being crumpled on the desk, but his mind was on drastically different things.

            Price chuckled as he leaned forward and whispered into his neck, “Might we indulge in sin just this once, Elder?”  McKinley let out an airy moan and more blood rushed to his face as Elder Price placed a gentle and teasing kiss onto his neck.  “The Good Lord forgives, but may we never forget the sin that may take place here today.” 

            McKinley shot up in bed, biting his knuckle and covered in sweat.  Despite being under a thick blanket in a warm room, he was plagued with violent cold chills and shivers.  He sat up in bed and he felt his eyes flood with tears that burned against his cold face.  He dug his teeth even deeper into knuckles and grabbed a fistful of hair as his body wretched in a silent yet powerful sob.  He needed to be quiet.  He didn’t want to wake the others. 

He pulled his hand back away from his mouth when he tasted blood – he felt it trickling down his hand and trailing on his wrist.  He removed his hand from his hair and held the one he had injured, and he closed his eyes tightly as hot tears continued to run like rivers down his cheeks.  He bit his bottom lip and rocked back and forth, Elder Price’s dream words still echoing in his head, _Might we indulge in sin just this once, Elder?_

A large sob shook a loud cough out of him that sounded rough and dry, like most choking coughs caused by heaving sobs tend to sound.  He put a hand over his mouth and looked over to his mission partner, who tossed a bit and got a snore caught in his throat, but other than that showed no sign of waking.  He forced deep breaths in and out of his body, and, though each one shook, he regained control over his lungs and his sobbing lessened to silent tears. 

            He needed to go wrap his hand up to keep it from getting infected and bleeding all over the bed and floor.  He forced his feet onto the floorboards and lifted himself up, his legs still shaking.  He stumbled back a bit and the back of his legs hit the bed before traveling towards his desk and opening the top drawer, grabbing some cloth scraps they kept and wrapping it tightly around his knuckles.  He tied it into a knot and pulled it tight with his teeth. 

            He contemplated sitting down at his desk for a while to try and fight off sleep – the thought of the dream he had just experienced made him shift uncomfortably.  He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, his mind ringing the same thing it had been since fifth grade: _Turn it off._ He was beginning to contemplate if it was so easy as flicking a switch.

            Everyone here _knew_ he used to have these feelings, but the catch was that they thought it was something from the past.  _Turn it off,_ his heterosexual side prevailed, he claimed.  But there _was_ no heterosexual side to prevail.  He had been searching for it since primary school, but nothing. 

            Since arriving in Uganda, he had more-or-less been able to push those feelings aside and let them alone while he went about his mission.  Just put them in the back of his mind and. . .  and _forget._ But when Elder Kevin Price arrived, his thoughts seemed to have shifted.  His dreams gradually changed from his decent to Hell that he had grown so used to vividly experiencing, to Elder Price asking and _begging_ to advance in sinful acts.  For some reason, the Elder left him in a more sickly and terrified state than his Hell dreams.  He had trouble focusing on the mission and he spaced out more often than usual.  _Goodness,_ how was he expected to be district leader if he couldn’t even maintain focus on his mission because of his _feelings?_ But he had to find a way to get these thoughts out of his mind – he would not let thoughts of sin replace thoughts of helping to lead their mission.  He couldn’t. 

            But, then again, while reading letter after letter and paper after paper, he couldn’t help but imagine the kind of future they would have together if they ever decided to allow their fates to intertwine.  He tried to stop and focus on other things, but he could never get himself to do it.  He just couldn’t. 


	2. The Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elder McKinley's nightmare caused stress and anxiety that tore him apart - physically and mentally. He's developed a headache and severe nausea, so it was time to fetch the doctor.

            He didn’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.

            Every time his eyes began to drift shut, he’d claw them open again, inhale for a shorter time than he’d exhale to get his heart rate up.  He’d sit up and tuck his knees up to his chest, rub his eyes and stretch a bit.  Come 6:30, he was staring at the ceiling, completely exhausted, sweating, nauseous, and anxious out of his mind.  He could barely keep his eyes open, but he forced himself out of bed, anyways.  He staggered a bit when he stood, taking the stance of a drunken man out early in the morning after a few too many drinks.  “Elder McKinley?”

            “Good morning, Elder,” he responded to his companion through a yawn.  He felt a headache forming behind his eyes and stretching across his forehead.  He fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead and letting out an irritated sigh. 

            There was a moment of silence stretched thin in the room before his companion muttered, “Elder, are you feeling alright?”

            “Fine,” he lied.  “Why do you ask?”  He glanced back at him before rubbing his hands on his face.

            He tapped his foot against the floor.  “You’ve just seemed kinda. . .  _Tired_ the past few days.”

            He knew what he wanted to say: _Irritated.  Rude.  Short-tempered.  Ill-mannered._   

            “You have bags forming under your eyes and you haven’t been as. . . ”  He paused, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and clicked his tongue.  “ _Passionate_ as usual _._   And you didn’t have that wrapped around your hand last night, did you?”

            He lifted his right hand and gingerly touched the cloth around his knuckles with his left.  “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, avoiding answering what happened to it.  Did avoiding the truth count as lying?

            More silence stretching even thinner now, so thin it made the air hard to breathe.  “Elder, if you’d like to go back to sleep, I can tell the others you aren’t feeling well.”

            “No, it’s alright.  I’m –”  Before he could finish his sentence, his companion was stood in front of him, holding the back of his hand up to his forehead. 

            “Do you feel warm at all, Elder McKinley?” he asked.  “You’re running a fever.”

            He felt his face grow red and he impulsively hit his hand away, saying, “I feel fine, Elder.”  He stood off the bed, but fell back again when his vision was blurred with black dots and his headache grew immensely worse.

            “Just stay in bed, I’ll tell the others you aren’t feeling well.” 

            “No, Elder, I’m –”  Whatever dinner he had managed to eat last night came spilling out onto the floor, and his companion had just enough time to jump back to avoid it getting onto his shoes.  _Perfect timing,_ he thought, the voice in his head ringing in a sarcastic tone, before falling back on the bed so he stared at the ceiling. 

            “I’ll go get someone to help clean this up,” his companion said, “You just stay here and try and sweat out this fever.”

            He stepped out of the room and Elder McKinley was left to struggle with his thoughts and physical ailment.  His stomach felt better, but he was still sweating and his headache was growing worse. 

            “Elder McKinley?”

_No._

_Not him._

_Why did it have to be him?_

_Is there_ nothing _else he could be doing right now?_

            Elder Price walked over and sat on the edge of his bed, saying, “I heard you weren’t feeling well.  Your mission companion is getting a cold rag for your head right now.  Is there anything I can get for you before I start cleaning up?”

            He shook his head, saying, “No, no, Elder Price, I’ll get it, I’ll clean it up –”

            “You need to stay in bed,” he said, standing up and going to get something to clean up the mess McKinley had made.  He paused in the doorway and reiterated, “Anything I can get you, Elder?”

_Nothing physical._

_Nothing good._

_Nothing the Lord would approve of._

            He shook his head.  His footsteps faded as his companion returned, folding a wet rag and putting it on top of his head.  “I’m going to go get the doctor,” he stated.  “Elder Price has offered to help clean up.” 

            He wanted to argue, _No, I’m fine, there’s nothing the doctor can do about this, I’ll be alright._ But he knew the rules: “Seek medical care if you are in an accident or become sick.”  He nodded, put his hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, then pulled his blanket up and placed his other arm above his head.  He was half asleep by the time Elder Price returned, who cleaned the mess in what McKinley could only assume was quiet disgust.  It appeared that Price was attempting to remain extra quiet to not worsen his headache.  He appreciated the gesture.

            When he woke up he heard the doctor saying to his companion, “ – your usual case of fever and nausea.  The only thing he can do is sweat off the fever, get plenty of sleep, and drink water in slow sips so he doesn’t throw it up from drinking too fast.”

            “Yes, thank you, sir.  And you’re _sure_ his hand isn’t infected?”

            “Positive,” he answered.  “I’ve seen my fair share of infections, but he’s alright.  Just keep it wrapped up and cleaned.”  They shook hands and the doctor left.  Elder Price was gone and the mess was, too.  “Did you hear that, Elder?” he asked quietly.  McKinley gave a few small and gentle nods.  “I’ll go get you some water.”  He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until his companion had mentioned getting him a glass of water – he realized his throat was dry and sore and his mouth watered at the thought.  When his companion returned with the glass he began to guzzle it quickly, but stopped abruptly when he heard, “Elder, slow sips!  You’re going to throw up again drinking like that!”  He set the water aside, having gotten enough down and not particularly wanting to cause himself to throw up another time. 

            His companion stood near the end of his bed, dragging his left foot around in circles.  “Elder,” his voice was quiet and gentle, but his tone said it wasn’t like that because of his headache.

            “Mhmm?”

            “. . .  Your hand doesn’t. . .  It doesn’t quite look like you’ve hit it on something.”  His voice was trailing into a soft decrescendo.  Elder McKinley said nothing, just grabbed his hand and tucked it close to his chest.  “Elder, what happened to your hand?”

            “Nothing that should concern you,” he responded, his voice sounding bitterer than he meant for it to come off.  He gave a small sigh and propped himself up on his elbows, his headache exploding in the front of his head.  “I’m sorry, Elder, I’ve just been tired.  I’ve had a bad habit since I was young of biting my knuckles during a nightmare.  It came back and I’ve been having trouble kicking it lately.”

            “Was it a Hell dream, Elder?”

            He nodded.

            Did it count as lying if the end result was Hell?

            “Don’t worry, Elder,” he gave an empathetic smile.  “We’ve all had the Hell dream.  It’ll be alright.”  McKinley laid his head back down and closed his eyes – he heard his companion’s footsteps travel to the next room.  He could hear him muttering to the other Elders, but if he was talking about his ailment or his nightmare, he didn’t know nor did he much care anymore.  He rolled onto his side and held his hands close to his chest.  He pulled his knees up and tucked his head down, then pulled his blanket over his head. 

_Being gay is bad but lying is worse._

            Dreams filled with sinful fantasies and lying by avoiding the truth?  He felt like he was cruising his way to Satan’s realm like this.  He wished he could sit in the shower for hours and scrub off the sin and the filth, but it wouldn’t.  No matter how long he sat there in water so hot that it turned his skin red, no matter how hard he scrubbed against his skin with hard-bristled brushes meant to clean underneath dirty nails, no matter how much he cried and screamed into his hand, the sin wouldn’t come off.  It never would.

            He drifted off to sleep to the sound of whispers subtly growing louder and more worried to overtake the others.


End file.
